Remembering How To Breathe
by Epiphany Aria Grace
Summary: Nights are hard. It's winter, 1899, and Racetrack's panic attacks have become a nightly occurence. It's harder to keep up the mask of being a goofy, happy gambler when every night he has to relearn how to breathe. Rated for mentions/hints of abuse, self harm, suicide attempts, depression, and panic attacks.


**Remembering How To Breathe**

 **Hey! So, second fic on here. I've been writing a** _ **lot**_ **of Newsies fanfiction lately, but this is the only thing I've finished. It's kind of a ramble and not my best, but I do like it.**

 **Lone Red Rover fans, if you're reading this- I promise I'm updating soon. So sorry it's been so long! Love y'all.**

 **If you love Newsies angst, you should follow me, because I plan to have a bunch more up soon!**

 **So I got the prompts "Dark" and "Breathe Again" and started listening to my eclectic-ish, indie-ish, depressing-ish, playlist while rambling, and this was born. I love Racetrack too much, I love angst too much, and I love giving my favorite characters mental illnesses too much; I think that much is clear.  
Oh, and a lot of the names, relationships, unrecognized scenes, or backstories mentioned come from my elaborately detailed headcanons and some of my other writing that isn't finished yet. If you want any explanations, feel free to message me, but hopefully I'll post some of the writing soon that contains some scenarios I mentioned.**

 **Trigger warning: mentions of panic attacks, depression, and suicide; hints at self harm and abuse.  
I also based some of this, esp. the ending off of a lyric from Sleeping At Last's song "Son" fyi, so you should look that up to make more sense of things.  
Actually, on second thought, I'll just put the lyrics here. You can look it up too though.**

 _ **"And I will try, try, try to breathe  
'til it turns to muscle memory  
I'm only steady on my knees  
One day I'll stand on my own two feet  
And I'll run the risk  
Of being intimate with brokenness  
Through this magnifying glass I see a thousand finger prints  
On the surfaces of who I am."**_

First comes the dizzy unreal feeling that comes every night for a split second after he wakes up.  
Second, the memories of what he woke up to escape from.  
Third, the noises of sickness, cold, hunger, brokenness. The noises of hopelessness that were constantly heard at night in the lodging house- especially during the winter. Muffled coughing, sniffling, tears, sighs and whispers. Sometimes even sobs in the early hours when everyone who wasn't awake assumed or pretended or hoped that they were the only ones.

Next, he tries to focus on one thing at a time. He does this every night- or more accurately, early morning- to take the edge off of his panic, to begin remembering how to breathe and reconstructing the broken mask that must be perfect by morning.  
 _The room is dark, with scraps of light coming in from the dirty window._  
 _Blink is snoring in the bed above me._  
Racetrack's legs are tangled in his thin sheet. Trapped.  
He can't move them.  
He's forgetting how to breathe again, before he's even had the chance to properly remember.  
He's panicking.  
Next, he feels himself reliving his nightmares while awake, remembering the way he was trapped in his dreams. The way his mind held him prisoner, as his dirty bedsheet is doing now. The way he relived the most painful moments every night.

The way he relived the night when he slept on the street, with a fractured leg and a father whom he couldn't go back to. And the night when he almost lost his best friend Aedan forever after being jumped by six Harlem boys. The night when Daggers started using him as something to vent his feelings on and he felt so lonely because he couldn't tell Aedan. When Aedan- or Spot- abandoned him and then threw him out of Brooklyn. When he had his first big fight with Jack and spent the night hiding under the Sheepshead seats, trying not to sob like the weakling he was.  
When he was dragged away to the hellhole disguised as the Refuge. When Jack escaped without him. When he was found half-dead in his cell by a confused 7 year old Ten Pin, who didn't know at the time what the word 'suicide' meant. When the winter became too much for the little Newsie named Marbles, the only one whom Race had let into his heart since the Refuge, and he watched the light leave the child's eyes. When Race finally realized that he was different from the other Newsies; that he had the same sickness that had caused his mother to jump off of the Brooklyn bridge. Sickness of the heart.  
When he decided that he couldn't tell any of them that he was sick for fear of being abandoned again.

And the more recent memories. Crutchy's screams as he was dragged away by the Delancey's. Jack throwing him out because he thought Race'd been gambling all his money away- right after he'd gotten back from spending the last of his money buying Dutchy desperately needed new shoes.  
Being interrupted once again, but this time by someone who understood all too well what the word "suicide" meant. Being robbed by his former best friend Spot Conlon of the one thing he still had the energy to want- death.  
The panic as he tried to get Medda to safety but was knocked unconscious, dragged away to a jail cell, and given nothing but accusing looks from other Newsies and threats of being sent back to the Refuge.  
The hurt on Mush's face, the rage on Spot's. The despair as his best friend stood before him, with the fancy clothes of a rich scabber and a cold indifference in his eyes, refusing to look down and see the boys he'd betrayed.  
The numb, hopelessly quiet night in the lodging house that night. The sobs that were obvious, despite the efforts to conceal them. Mush trying to hide his wet face as he cleaned up the broken mirror and Kid Blink's bloody fist. The angry red lines on Skittery's arms- that only Racetrack had noticed. That only he had realized, sickeningly, the cause of.

 _Spot. Blink. Skittery. Mush. Mush..._  
Race tries to focus, tries to snap himself out of his rising panic attack.  
 _Mush is also above me. He snuck up there a few hours ago and I heard him and Blink whispering and Blink trying to comfort him while he cried. Blink's soft side comes out when he's with Mush. One of them is coughing now. I think it's Mush. He looked pale today.  
Someone in the bed next to mine is whimpering. That's Snipeshooter. I'm the only one who knows that he has nightmares, too. He doesn't know I know. Nobody really knows what happened to him before he came here, but whatever it was was so bad that he didn't talk for near a month.  
Skittery is in the bunk across the way from mine. Tumbler is in his bed, and Skits has his arms around the kid like a protective big brother, which he almost is for Tumbler. Sometimes I think Skittery might be sick like me. When he gets that empty look in his eyes or when he has those lines hidden under his sleeves. He avoids crossing bridges on those days, like I sometimes do.  
We're not afraid of the bridges- we're afraid of ourselves.  
_  
Breathing is becoming easier as Racetrack fights to ground himself in the small details.

 _Spot. Spot Conlon. His full name is Aedan Dahy Padraic. He's in Brooklyn. I haven't talked to him since three days after the strike. His eyes were very blue last time I saw him. He was happy then. His eyes go grey when he's angry or hurt. I wonder if he's still happy._

Race cracks his eyes open and studies the room in the scarce light. Many of the boys are sharing their bed with someone else because it's so cold. Racetrack doesn't have a proper blanket- he'd given it to Snipes one night while he was shivering and coughing in his sleep.  
He looks at the bunk above Skittery's, where Dutchy shares the bed with his brother, Specs. Most people don't actually know that they are brothers, but since the strike Racetrack has been a lot closer to Dutchy and he knows. It's probably around five in the morning, and Race knows Kloppman will be up soon to wake them. He feels his panic attack leaving. Ever since the strike, he's been having them nearly every night. He doesn't think anyone knows. He hopes he's right. He can't afford not to be.

He moves cautiously, trying not to make any noise as he unwraps his legs from the sheet.  
He's no longer trapped- in his sheets or his mind- at least for the time being.  
He's stopped panicking.  
With each breath, his breathing becomes stronger and steadier.  
He can't tell if he's getting better or worse day by day, but for now, he's alive, and that's enough.

For now, he will focus on getting up, selling his papers, taking care of the younger Newsies, and trying to fight off his nightmares every night. Because that's all he can do. He's sick, and to travel the same distance as people like Jack and Blink he has to cut through ten times as many thorns and weeds. So it's okay if he goes more slowly then them.  
It's okay if every night he has to remind himself how to breathe again, every morning how to get up again, every day how to fight through his thorns and live again.

Maybe Racetrack was beat when he was born- born to a depressed mother and an abusive father. Born into a broken world, born sick. Born broken.  
Maybe people like Racetrack weren't meant for anything more than pain filled, empty lives.  
But then again, Racetrack Higgins never was much of one to follow the rules.  
So he'll get up again and he'll keep doing it, over and over, until someday, even though he'll still have thorns, he'll be stronger. Strong enough to push through them.  
Strong enough to wake up not fighting to remember how to breathe.  
Strong enough to turn it into muscle memory.


End file.
